Fresh oysters, chaunted with melodious voice,
Or Printers’ Devils ever hasty tread,
Shall nought avail to make these men rejoice,
Or rouse those writings which to fame are dead.
For these no more the ceilings shall be swept,
Or spiders driven from their dreary dens,
Who twice ten months have unmolested slept
And brav’d the fury of succeeding pens.
Oft did the actors tremble at their power,
When rang’d in dread array along the pit,